Mr. G: The Teacher Who Made Me Believe

How a High School Choir Director Shaped My Confidence

This story began yesterday as a writing prompt in Diane Zinna's Winter Magic Circle, where we were asked to remember a beloved teacher. For me, it was Mr. G, my high school choir director, whose youthful energy and unwavering belief in his students left an indelible mark on my teenage years.

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Tall and thin with a blonde shag that fell across his forehead and flopped as he waved his baton, Mr. G was the antithesis of my other teachers at Howell High School. He was new. And young. And the object of many crushes. Not mine, though. He was goofy and wiry and made us sing silly scales before practice.

I had left eighth grade as a baritone-saxophone-playing band nerd. But I loved to sing. I wasn’t good, but not being good only encouraged me back then. My early teenage years were all about wanting to be seen and heard. I was a ham and wanted to make people laugh. Perhaps those things, plus wanting to become a different person in high school than I had been in eighth grade, led me to retire my sax and dive headlong into choir. For the next four years, through concert choir, chamber choir, madrigals, and musicals, Mr. G gave me opportunities. Sight-reading music became my superpower—a requirement in many auditions. Mr. G taught me how to “be” on stage. How to project. How to audition. How to handle rejection.

During the summer between junior and senior years, one of the four students selected to attend the HARTT Summer Youth Music Program at the University of Hartford dropped out at the last minute. Maybe the girl’s grandfather had died…I don’t recall. But Mr. G called my mother and offered her a slot for me. I had never been away from home before. And I didn’t want to leave my job at McDonald’s for two weeks. Not because I enjoyed hocking burgers, but because I “liked” a kid who also worked there. The kid didn’t know I “liked” him, of course. But the staff picnic was coming up, and I envisioned the kid and me standing by the lake and tossing hot dog buns to the ducks. Panic-stricken that the kid would feed ducks with another girl instead of me, I told Mr. G no. My mother was beside herself, insanely livid. Have you lost your mind? My mother didn’t impart much wisdom to me, but those five words: Have you lost your mind? jolted me out of my duck-feeding fantasy; I agreed to go to HARTT.

On my first day there, I auditioned for the talent show that was to take place on the last day of the program. My chosen audition song was “Shy” from Once Upon a Mattress. I conjured my best Carol Burnett, but the professor conducting the audition was not amused. He asked me why I was there. Stunned, I simply shrugged and sat down. Later, as I tried to slink away, his parting words were, You have no business being here.

After the audition, my roommate made sympathetic noises as we walked to our next class, telling me not to worry and that she thought my rendition of “Shy” was fantastic. I hid my disappointment and showed her the strong, happy-go-lucky person I strived to be. My insides, though, were a raw, jumbled mess. I had auditioned for a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof the year before. I dressed like Tevye (with a stick-on beard) and used my mother’s childhood violin as a prop. Clearly, I didn’t get the part of Tevye (or anyone else). But the casting team didn’t chide me. They didn’t discourage me. And while they didn’t sugarcoat my performance, they gave a gentle, constructive critique.

As my roommate and I walked across campus, I choked out yet another “congratulations” when she burst into song—“Maybe”— from Annie, which was the song she had aced in the audition. And, of course, she would be in the HARTT talent show.

I regretted not standing up to my mother. I should have shouted, Yes, I did lose my mind! I’m not going! I missed the routine of my “old” life at home. I missed asking people if they wanted fries with their Quarter Pounder. I missed my workplace crush. I had FOMO before FOMO was a thing.

It turned out I had a fun and productive two weeks at HARTT anyway, despite the professor’s harsh words and not getting to perform in the talent show. I returned to Howell High School that fall and relayed the story to Mr. G, making humor and light out of it. He wasn’t amused and muttered something about contacting HARTT to give that professor a piece of his mind.

Decades later, when I learned that young, vibrant, talented, goofy, floppy Mr. G had died, I pulled out my senior yearbook and read what he wrote to me:

Dear Lynn,

What a four years. From Elton John to being in bed with Joe Potter onstage. You are certainly a fun and unforgettable character, as well as a great singer and student. Remember that jerk at HARTT who told you that you couldn’t sing? What a moron!

Steve Gosewisch (alias Mr. G)